Oops
by Fox Flynn
Summary: We all know of Erik's classic plan to gain Christine's favor, but what if it failed? He'd have to try again, naturally. Modern. Rated T for language and "adult situations"
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Phantom of the Opera. Don't have the money for it, anyways.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, 'I am the Angel of Music, and I have been sent to help you.'"

Christine furrowed her brow. So many things seemed wrong with this situation that she couldn't process it all. After a few seconds of silence, she addressed the disembodied voice again. "Is that, um…?"

Inwardly, Christine cursed herself for feeling so inarticulate in vexing situations. To tell the truth, though, she had never encountered anything like this. She couldn't understand this unseen stranger's motives for the life of her. At this point, she knew that he could either be playing a joke, insane, or well meaning. For the sake of her own self-preservation, and possibly due to some denial on her part, she entertained the idea of the last option.

Erik watched patiently from above as Christine struggled to put her thoughts into words.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean," Christine said, projecting her voice to the balcony of the dimly lit theatre. It was a good a guess as any as to where the voice was coming from, because it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. "Could you please explain?"

Erik smiled at Christine's unfailing politeness. He knew that it was her first reaction in any situation, regardless of how she actually felt. He could read Christine like a book, and did so regularly.

Nonplussed at the lack of response, Christine spoke again. "Also, I would feel a lot better if you'd come down to the stage to talk to me."

Erik had been expecting this.

"I am an angel. Therefore, I can choose not to make myself visible to you."

That was all Christine needed to hear. Without a second thought, she turned on her heel and made for the stage left door, convinced finally that she was the victim of some unorthodox prank. Upon reaching the door, however, she found it firmly locked. The amicable expression fell from her face. Erik chuckled softly at her attempts to appear calm as she sprinted to try the other door. He watched as strands of her dark hair fell free from the plait down her back and curled loosely around her face.

"Okay," she called to the ceiling, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. "Very funny. My accompanist didn't want to meet me here, you tricked me, but I have to go. My boyfriend is waiting outside."

Rich laughter rang about every corner of the auditorium, causing Christine to startle violently. _A valid effort, my dear, _he thought to himself. "You do not have a boyfriend, and you needn't be afraid of me."

At this, Christine finally let the alarm she felt play across her features. "How do you know that?"

"Because, _dear_ girl…" Erik purred, watching Christine shiver. "I am your angel. I know everything about you." His languorous, hypnotic tone caused her to lose her train of thought, until the meaning of his words set in.

"You need to let me go right now," Christine cried, backing away, "or I'll call the police!"

Erik frowned. "Whatever for, child? I am the Angel of Music, sent to you by your dear departed father to help you meet your full potential."

Christine stopped, eyes wide. He had struck a nerve. "How _dare _you?" she said slowly, shaking with rage. "Leave my father out of this you… you creep!" She made another dash for the doors, frantically kicking and tugging at the handle. Erik's frown deepened. Things were not going according to his plan.

"_CHRISTINE_!" Erik's powerful instrument caused the ground to rumble, and the crystal of the chandelier to chime menacingly. The doors were spared as Christine sunk to the floorboards of the stage, stunned.

"I don't understand," said Christine quietly. "How do you know all this? Have you been following me?"

"I know you, because I am your angel," Erik repeated. A pained look crossed Christine's face.

"That's not what I… I mean, _angels aren't real_."

Erik paled.

He had not been expecting this.

A/N: Hi! I posted the first chapter to a different story a little while ago, but took it down due to a lack of inspiration. This story sort of counts as my first fan fiction, then. I'm pretty excited about it! Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

"But that's- that's impossible!" Erik sputtered, forgetting to throw his voice. Christine glanced up into the rafters, bleary eyed. "You said to your friend, that Meg… you said that your father would send the Angel of Music. You said you were waiting for your angel!"

Christine sniffed once, causing Erik's breath to catch in his throat. She was crying.

Without a second thought, Erik deftly made his way down from the catwalk and was quickly beside Christine on the stage. She looked up at the dark, imposing figure towering over her, and the floodgates opened.

"Are you going to k-kill me?" she hiccupped. Her pale face was splotched with color and stained with tears, and she seemed dangerously close to hyperventilating. Erik's features grew soft, and he knelt down before her. Christine made to crawl away, but Erik grabbed her hand. He stared at their joined hands for a moment.

"Christine," he said quietly, "I would never let harm find you."

Christine's hysterics grew quieter as she studied the man in front of her. In her state of shock, the strongest impression she got when looking at him was that of a Tim Burton character. Erik had long, spindly limbs, and was easily a head taller than her, if not more. He was dressed all in black, and had on a mask that covered his features save his eyes and thin, pale lips.

By now, Erik was saying something, but his eyes were such a shade of amber as Christine had never seen before, or so she thought. She wondered vaguely whether he wore contacts

"Christine?" Hearing her name pronounced so sharply caused Christine to break out of her reverie.

A beat.

"I do believe in angels," Christine mumbled to the floor.

"I'm sorry?" murmured Erik. He moved imperceptibly closer.

"I told Meg… My father believed in the Angel of Music, and I'm not religious or anything, but I think anyone who helps someone else is an angel. It's silly, but…"

Christine stopped, and looked at her hand, which Erik still had in his. She blinked, then sprang up, effectively tearing herself away from him. "I can't believe I'd tell you something like that," she moaned, heading for the opposite stage door.

"It's not silly," Erik offered.

Christine wiped her eyes and turned to look at him, her expression livid. "You need to let me out of here _now. _My friends know where I am, and they'll come looking for me."

Erik rose to his full height and slowly approached Christine. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Christine. Besides, they won't find you here."

The tone of Erik's voice made her heart stop. The only word she could think of to describe it was _broken._

"Oh, God."

A few deft movements and darkness filled Christine's vision.


	3. Chapter 3

I own nothing regarding The Phantom of the Opera.

Somewhere in the back of Christine Daae's mind, she knew that she was asleep. She also knew that it was time to wake up, and made the decision to do so.

This wasn't out of the norm for Christine. In fact, it was how she woke up every morning. What wasn't so normal for her was waking with a splitting headache.

Moaning softly, Christine rolled onto her side, eyes closed. _Jesus Christ, _she thought. _What did I do…_

Yesterday.

Christine's eyes shot open, and she launched herself from the bed she had previously occupied. Almost immediately, an incredible head rush made her regret that choice, and red clouded her vision. _Fuck, fuck… _She sank to the floor, hands on her head. After a few moments, she felt lucid enough to assess the situation.

Christine was in a small bedroom. It was neat and simply furnished, with light blue walls. The light colored carpet felt warm and soft underneath her. Sunshine was streaming from high windows, creating spider webs of light on Christine's fingers and legs. She had never seen this place before.

Standing abruptly, Christine looked down at herself. She was wearing what she had worn the day before; black jeans and a striped shirt. For this much, she was grateful. _Fuck. Fuck. _Feeling thoroughly out her depth, she rushed the bedroom door. The handle would not budge. Christine's eyes widened, and she plummeted, as she had not twenty-four hours ago.

Not daring to make a sound, Christine continued to rattle the doorknob and threw her weight against the merciless, unyielding oak door. Suddenly, she felt it give way and shrieked as she fell into a pair of strong arms.

"Jesus, Christine. Are you okay? The door sticks sometimes." Christine looked up at the man holding her in place, and immediately stopped struggling. He happened to be her best friend's boyfriend, and her best friend, Meg Giry, was watching worriedly over his shoulder.

As soon as Christine was still, Josh released her arm and was more or less shoved aside by an excitable Meg. "Christine, you're up! You scared the ever-loving shit out of me!"

"What… where are we?" Asked a slightly dazed Christine. She noticed Meg's mother watching the group concernedly from the end of the hallway.

"We're at my house," Meg bleated, tucking back a strand of her pale hair. "You fainted yesterday, and we brought you back here. You woke up once, but I guess you don't remember that. How do you feel? Do you remember being out yesterday? Can you-"

"Okay, alright." Meg's mother, Antoinette, finally made herself heard and moved to where they were standing in the cramped hall. Christine stared at her former dance teacher. A petite woman with undeniably French features, she was the spitting image of her daughter, save for her thick, dark hair. "Give the girl some space, then we'll ask questions. Megan, fetch her some water. Christine, come with me."

In her unfailingly professional manner, she showed Christine downstairs and into a comfortable sitting room. With an unreadable expression on her face, Christine lowered herself onto a pale pink loveseat. Antoinette sat beside her in wooden rocker and Josh across from them, on a sofa. Christine shook her head, as though she were trying to clear it.

"I ran into you yesterday at the grocery store, at around noon. You complained briefly of a headache, and then passed out. I called Josh and Megan to help me move you. It's a good thing you woke when you did; any longer and we would have sought medical attention. "

Two qualities Madame Giry possessed for which Christine was endlessly grateful were her frankness and, at the same time, her strong maternal instinct. In this circumstance, however, any and all kindnesses were lost on a still-stunned Christine. She vaguely noticed Meg enter the sitting room and place a tumbler of water on the piano next to her, before seating herself next to Josh on the sofa.

"We didn't mean to frighten you," continued Antoinette, "but you didn't have the key your apartment with you, and my house was nearer than Megan's flat."

There was silence for a few moments as Christine stared at a point just above Josh's head, and then her brow furrowed in confusion. "But that's not what happened. There was a man, in a mask… we were in the Held Theatre."

Meg and her mother exchanged a look. "Christine," Meg began carefully, "that's not what happened. You never went to the theatre."

After a few uncomfortable seconds, the only phrase which Christine could summon was, _that bastard. _

A/N: The plot, she thickens! I wonder what really happened before Christine lost consciousness. I guess we'll find out! PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! Not to, ahem, sound needy or anything, I truly am excited to be testing the waters of fan fiction and to explore the characters of Christine and Erik a bit. Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with the Phantom of the Opera, except for a paperback novel.

After much fuss and the consumption of some protein, Christine found herself on the floor of her own apartment, accompanied by Meg. Both Antoinette and her daughter had refused to let Christine leave on her own, and Josh had been left to fend for himself. Christine, though protective of Meg, had always approved of Josh. At first glance the couple seemed unusually paired, what with his quiet, calm demeanor and her tendency to voice her every conscious thought. Despite this, they had been together since their freshman year of high school and managed to bring out the best in one another. Christine had to wonder whether she'd ever have something like that. Given the score she kept at this point, though, it seemed unlikely.

"That was some sort of dream you had, huh?" Meg was systematically pulling DVDs from the hutch beneath Christine's television and providing a steady narrative. "I mean, tell me again. He was wearing a mask? Was he cute? I guess you don't know because he was in a mask. Why would your subconscious come up with something like that, though? It seems so dramatic. Was he someone you knew? You said he was-"

"Megan." Christine held her forehead in her hand. Eating a meal had done wonders, but her head still throbbed, and being barraged by questions wasn't helping. …Not that she could focus on what the blonde was saying. "I love you dearly, but I need some time to myself, to process what's happened. We'll have a movie night Sunday, as usual. 'Kay?"

Meg furrowed her brow adorably. Everything about her was adorable, from her elfin features to her bobbed haircut. "I was carefully instructed not to leave 'til I was sure you're okay. My sense of duty binds me here."

"And you are doing your duty fabulously. You have fabulous duty."

Meg snorted. "Fabulous doody. What _will _they come up with next?"

Christine smiled and helped her friend to her feet. Meg peered into the taller girl's face and asked, "And you're sure you're feeling alright?"

"Like a million dollars. I'll text you later."

With a hug and another allusion to feces, Meg was off. Christine fell into the nearest chair and felt glad that her roommate was away, and that said roommate had the presence of mind to leave the spare key under the doormat.

_Time to think._ With peace and quiet in her corner, Christine needed to figure a few things out. She knew that she had never had a dream as vivid as her experience with the masked man. On the other hand, Mme. Giry had no good reason to lie to her. This left one option; that Christine had gone mad. However, she didn't _feel _mad, so she decided to review the facts.

From what Mme. Giry, Meg, and Josh told her, Christine had stopped at the grocery store after, as she had told Mme. Giry, her accompanist cancelled their meeting at the Held Theatre. She had then complained of a headache and, to Giry's prompting, described the symptoms of a migraine. At this point she collapsed, and was transported to the Giry home. Antoinette had justified her resistance to medical interference with the fact that she herself often suffered from migraine headaches, and that she felt Christine simply needed to rest.

All of this had transpired at around noon the day before. Several hours later, Christine woke and had something to drink. At that point, however, she had apparently expressed a desire to sleep longer, and was allowed to do so. She slept through the night and into the morning.

Curled up on the papasan chair in her own apartment, Christine did not quite feel satisfied with this explanation. It sounded perfectly rational, except… well, she knew that she hadn't been dreaming. _But I must have been. I _couldn't _have been. But I _must_ have been. _

Sighing again, our perplexed heroine heaved herself out of the chair and headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea. _I would do better to put this whole damned mess out of my mind, if only for a few minutes._

But then, something occurred to her.

Christine spun around and sprinted to the bathroom, throwing open the door and turning on the light. She frantically pulled back her tangled mass of hair then stared at her reflection, eyes wide.

On the right side of her neck was a tiny puncture wound.

A/N: Oh, dear. NOW what do you think happened? Share your theories with the world and with your humble authoress! To the review button with you! Also, thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own the rights to The Phantom of the Opera. Or Tylenol, for that matter.

It was late July in Auburn, Massachusetts, and the weather was unseasonably fair. A warm breeze danced tree branches in a gentle rhythm and, if one stopped to listen, a simple etude for birdcalls and wind chimes could be heard from virtually any point in the modest town. It was a perfect midsummer's afternoon- and all of its natural beauty was lost on Christine Daae.

Christine could be found lying facedown on the carpet of her apartment, lights off and blinds closed, oblivious to the world. The only sign of life she showed was the occasional consumption of chips from the bag by her side, then it was straight back to a state of near vegetation. Frankly, she didn't have the energy to do much else. The events of the day previous had hit Christine like a truck, and all she could do was cycle between reflecting on them and trying to forget them completely.

The awful truth was that Christine needed a plan of action, but the more she thought about it, the more her headache threatened to make a triumphant return. It was hopeless anyways, and she knew it. There was the option of going to the police, but several factors stood in the way of this. The most obvious argument for staying home was the fact that Christine was too terrified to leave her apartment. However, she would have to leave to attend class the next day. Voice performance at the Nilsson Conservatory didn't study itself. In any case, she wasn't even sure whether the drug that had knocked her out (if there had, in fact, been a drug) was still in her system. If it weren't there, then she'd have no proof to show the police and would seem crazy. That is, more so than she herself thought she might already be. But if it really had been a dream, then how could the puncture wound be explained? And there still remained the concern of her own safety, if in fact a psychopath _was _stalking her.

In short, it was a lot to consider, and it all left Christine feeling as though she needed a drink.

_Here we go. C'mon, feet. _

It took her several tries to work up the gumption to stand. Perhaps the brunette was being overly lethargic, but she didn't think so. She could recall how unbelievably difficult it was to stand up to her accoster one final time after having been reduced to a bundle of nerves and emotion. When one took into account the introduction of a heavy sedative to Christine's body after a wild rush of adrenaline had sapped nearly all her energy, it was really no wonder that she would have needed all the sleep that she did. Even now her movements felt slow and labored. Of course, all of this begged the question of why she was told a completely different story by the Girys, two women who had been like family to her from a very young age. She couldn't see any good reason for them to be anything but truthful.

_God, not again. _

Without thinking, Christine grabbed a small bottle off of the kitchen counter and popped a couple of Tylenol. This, of course, ruled out the option of alcoholic refreshment, so she instead washed the pills down with water and closed her eyes.

She felt very much alone.

A/N: I know that this chapter is a bit short even in comparison to the others. I had my reasons for not tacking it onto the last one, though. After a couple of reviews, I'll be turning out longer chapters. Go, makers of your own destiny! Go forth and review!


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I still own nothing!

Erik was livid.

Back and forth he paced, back and forth, wall to wall, until he could almost feel the Champagne-colored carpet that lined his apartment disintegrate under his feet. Both hands clasped behind his back, his body language lent to one's mind the strong impression of a jungle cat, trapped in a cage.

Erik suddenly stopped and brought his fist down on the oak table beside him, hard. "Fuck!"

Ripping off his mask and running a hand through his dark hair, Erik recounted the mistakes he had made over the past two days. His most crucial error, of course, was his immense misjudgment of Christine.

_Christine. _Erik groaned and fell into the chair by his desk at the thought of the girl to whom he literally owed his life. He hadn't expected such a reaction from her. Not in a thousand years. Why should he? He could remember that most revealing conversation as though it were yesterday. Then again, was it really so revealing, after all?

Who knows how Meg and Christine had gotten onto the topic of angels in the first place, while strolling around their school's campus? _However, _Erik thought grudgingly,_ at the incredible rate of speech the ballet rat manages to attain on a daily basis, it's a small wonder that she should visit any topic under the sun at some point._ Erik could remember so clearly Christine's response to one of that silly girl's questions.

"Well, of course there are angels. Dad always told me when I was little that the designated Angel of Music would find me at some point. I guess I'm still waiting." After that, the pair had rounded the corner of a building and were out of sight. At that point, however, Erik hadn't needed to hear any more. A plan was already hatching in his exceptional mind.

How could he have known to question the context of Christine's statement? _I should have, _came the same nagging voice. _I took for granted what I already know, and made a stupid mistake._

A mistake that, if Erik had been careful, should leave no lasting ramifications. He's only know once the phone rang…

Suddenly, the sleek smartphone next to him on the oak surface trilled. Erik answered it on the first ring.

"The girl. She's all right?"

"Y-yes, Erik," answered a startled woman, caught off guard by the harshness of Erik's tone. "Meg took her home. She suspects nothing."

Erik relaxed somewhat at this, but his voice lost none if its steely edge. "And what happened after she woke up?"

"I told her what you told me. Fainting induced brought on by migraine headache. I fed her something then sent her home. There's really no cause to worry, you know. She thinks she dreamt you."

Erik's brow furrowed at the indignant tone she had taken on. Perhaps he had been too harsh, after all.

"Yes, well… I appreciate your help, Antoinette. You will be compensated."

A slight pause.

"Take care, Erik." Then a dial tone, and nothing more. Perhaps there was a touch of melancholy in this last utterance by the veteran dance teacher, but it was lost on Erik, who was already on his feet and determining his next course of action.

A/N: Another shorty. I lied! Big things cooking, though. BIG things.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING.

_Step. Step. Step. Step._

Christine kept her eyes trained on the sidewalk ahead of her, making a point of stepping in the center of every square of concrete as she made her way to her next class. Song Lit. "Yippee," she muttered.

For a little over a week, Christine had made her way from point A to point B in this exact fashion; head down, quick step, hands at sides. Perhaps it gained her a few odd looks, but she didn't care. Christine felt far from safe at this point, although this was not information she was willing to share with anyone else.

_Step. Step. Step. _

It wasn't as though it would do any good to talk to someone. Christine knew full well that she had no physical evidence to justify her paranoia, and that there were several people who would even testify against her. People she thought she could trust.

Christine stopped walking for a moment, staring straight ahead. Then, as though remembering something, she glanced over each shoulder, and took off again.

_One more block to go. I'm on the home stretch._

Christine's behavior could, however, be very much justified. By now, she had come to several conclusions, one of these being that, for whatever reason, she was being conspired against. It hurt her to try and avoid her best friend of eleven years, but Christine had resolved to try and distance herself from the Girys until she had a firmer grasp on the situation. Another realization on Christine's part was that most likely she had been, or was being stalked.

It wasn't easy for the girl to try and wrap her mind around this idea, but for the time being, she wasn't taking any chances. A canister of pepper spray (unused as of yet, but purchased several years ago) was in the purse at her side, as was her cell phone. She made an effort to be as aware of her surroundings as possible at all times, and made a point of never travelling alone at night. However, seeing as how she had alienated her closest friend and thereby exhausted her list of people she was comfortable asking for favors, Christine didn't travel at all by night.

All she knew for sure was that she was ready for the constant fear to be over. In fact, Christine almost wished that she would meet her masked assailant, just to be able to put the sense of expectation to rest. She was already sick of jumping at every little noise, and not feeling secure in her own home.

By this point, Christine had reached Crage Hall, where her Song Lit. class was located. She hefted the bag on her shoulder, and pushed her way through glass double doors and inside the building.

Checking the time on her phone, Christine saw that she had seven minutes to spare before her class began. _Chalk yet another one up to my compulsive punctuality, _she thought dully, as she ducked into the women's restroom on her left.

Dropping her canvas bag to the floor, Christine turned on the taps and studied herself in the mirror. Her face wore a pained expression as she took in her appearance. Her normally pale skin was actually pallid, all the color having left her cheeks and lips. A distinct lack of make up made the dark circles under her eyes stand out, and create a generally corpse-like look about her.

_Here she comes, Miss America._

After checking the water's temperature, Christine splashed her face and scrubbed it with hand soap until she could feel her eyes stinging. She rinsed and patted dry with a paper towel, looking at her reflection again.

She knew she shouldn't be so hard on herself, but then, she always knew that. Christine knew what she liked about herself and took pride in what she did, but thoughts of these things were not usually foremost in her mind. Before leaving the bathroom and heading to class, she made a point of finding one quality about herself that she actually liked, if only to try and preserve her sanity. Her light blue eyes were her late father's.

* * *

After half an hour of reviewing German pronouns and simultaneously staring out of the nearest window at the street below, Christine was headed to classroom 100 for her weekly voice lesson. At this point, she felt as good as she would all day. Nowhere felt safer to her than the buildings at the Nilsson Conservatory, surrounded by familiar faces and music, leaking through doorways. Even if her experiences while practicing or studying were frustrating (which they often were) or her communications with fellow students painfully awkward, she still felt more at home here than anywhere else in the world.

For the first time in a while, perhaps all day, Christine allowed a smile to play across her features as she neared her destination. Of all her school-related activities, private voice lessons were easily her favorite. Her teacher was kindly and sweet, an older lady named Emma Valerius who insisted that everyone call her Emma, and who was as much a mother figure to Christine as Madame Giry had been. Christine owed so much to Emma, who had worked from day one to make Christine feel as though she was not alone in this most imposing of places.

"Hello-o-o!" Christine called in the traditional way she and Emma had established as she opened the classroom door. A cheerful "Hello!" greeted her upon crossing the threshold.

Christine stopped and stared at the owner of the voice, and a small moan escaped her lips.

It wasn't Emma Valerius sitting at the piano bench.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I own no Phantom-y things.

"Oh, no. No way."

"Good afternoon, Ms. Daae. I am Erik Destler, and I will be your private voice instructor for the time being."

Erik rose from the piano bench at which he had been sitting, and extended a hand for Christine to shake. Christine, however, was not in a frame of mind to meet Erik's level of cordiality. She was backed against the doorframe, and her knees were bent; she poised to attack, or to spring out into the hallway. Only her eyes betrayed her inner turmoil, wide with confusion and fear.

"What have you done with Mrs. Valerius?" Christine asked, trying to sound as menacing as possible. Erik dropped his hand and took a step back.

"Why, she's resigned. Didn't anyone tell you?" Erik's relaxed stance and speech suggested that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Erik's voice, dark and honey sweet, scrambled Christine's thoughts for a second time. Almost instantly, she regrouped and asked desperately, "What do you want? Why won't you leave me alone?"

Erik blinked. "I'm sorry?"

The mask of rage that Christine had been struggling to maintain slipped at this utterance. This masked man, undoubtedly the one Christine remembered, seemed genuinely confused. Trying to find the right words to say and coming up short, Christine gave a sigh and leaned against the wall. "I just want some answers." Something in her voice suggested tiredness, and a bit of melancholy.

Erik was silent for a moment. Then, he spoke. "Perhaps you would like to take a seat?"

Christine eyed the cluster of desks near them, then Erik. Finally, without ever taking her eyes off of him, she moved to the nearest desk and sunk into its seat. Erik moved to shut the door, but Christine's hand shot out.

"The door stays open!" she shouted, then winced. Her efforts at maintaining composure were proving less and less fruitful. Erik hesitated, then moved to his original post at the piano bench and sat. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees, and looked at her, his masked face unreadable.

"Ms. Daae, you seem to be agitated by my presence. Would you care to explain?"

Christine stared at the bridge of his masked nose, at the floor, at the wall behind him. Anything to avoid eye contact.

"I… well."

Erik was staring at her, and her mind was like a machine gone haywire. Until a few minutes ago, Christine had been certain in her conviction that she had been tormented and drugged by a masked man, but now she doubted herself. The man before her was so calm and polite, not at all the arrogant, malicious entity with the slow drawl she remembered. And yet, so many details were the same…

Erik spoke, and Christine looked up, hearing the concerned note in his voice. "Ms. Daae, you do remember our first meeting, don't you?"

Christine gaped at him. "Wha-at?"

"Several months ago, I believe we were introduced at Rebecca Graham's recital. I played for her."

Christine knew Rebecca only in passing. She was mezzo and a senior at the Conservatory. She even remembered attending Rebecca's junior recital, but hadn't known the collaborative pianist.

There was a decision to be made, and quickly, so Christine made it.

"Oh… oh, of course! I am so sorry. Of course I remember meeting you. You did a lovely job of playing, by the way. You'll have to excuse me, I thought you were somebody else."

Christine watched Erik cock his head slightly at this. Her heart was beating so that she was almost sure he could hear it.

"No harm done, my dear, although it is interesting that I should remind you of anyone else. This may be the first time I've experienced anything like it. "

Laughing weakly, Christine diverted her gaze away from Erik's face and to the wall just beyond his head. Erik frowned slightly.

"Well, then. With all that cleared up, shall we sing?" He swiveled around and motioned toward the crook of the baby grand piano. Christine allowed herself one last glance at the door, then stood and made her way over to him.

A/N: Not my favorite chapter that I've put out so far, but it does the job, and it's quite important, if difficult to execute. I like reviews. I'd also like say that begging is beneath me, but it is obviously not. Gravity01 has been fabulous by way of reviewing, so live up to those standards! I DARE you.


	9. Chapter 9

I own none of the things.

"I mean, microtones? Three weeks into lessons, and he wants me singing in _microtones?_"

Meg winced at her best friend's lamentations about her new voice teacher. Since Christine's first lesson with him, she had been on edge, and Meg had been shouldering much of the burden of calming her down.

"Well, it can't be _so _bad… I mean, singing on pitch is good, right?"

Christine huffed, and nestled deeper into the plushy depths of the papasan, aggressively wringing and stretching the sleeve of her cardigan in her hands.

"And don't get me started on what he's like when we're _not _singing. It's bad enough that he acts so goddamned superior and gets pissy when I don't live up to his impossibly high standards, but he's always staring at me. It's weird. He stares at me through the whole lesson and I swear he never looks away once. He's just doing it to intimidate me, too. I know he is. What did I do to incur the wrath of the teacher from hell?" Christine twisted around in the chair to look at her friend in the kitchen. "Erik is like… Snape, and I'm Harry. Except that he doesn't actually turn out to be a good guy, or in love with my mom."

Meg sighed at the audible pout in the other girl's voice and made her way from Christine's kitchen to the living room, carrying two freshly blended milkshakes.

"Okay…" Meg started carefully, handing the brunette a frosty mug, then taking a seat on the floor. "So maybe he's a bit… demanding. And intense. You shouldn't let it get to you, though. I'm sure it's not personal."

Meg had no idea whether or not it was personal. She was completely thrown for a loop about this whole situation, because in all the years she had known her friend, Christine had never been one to complain about trivial things. The only conclusion she could come to was that this was not a trivial matter. What made things doubly confusing for her was that Christine had always been the voice of reason in their relationship, and she was not used to playing therapist. The whole affair made her head hurt.

"What I mean is… Are you really sure he hates you? What if he actually likes you, and this is way of showing it?"

Christine looked up from her chocolatey concoction, her face a mask of pure revulsion and horror. "Absolutely _not, _Meg. That is so not funny. Not ever will that be funny."

Meg held up her hands in a defensive gesture. " I didn't mean it like _that, _but…" Meg paused, considering. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Immediately, she shielded her head with her arms to protect against the inevitable onslaught of objects thrown by Christine and laughed. "You are an ass!" cried Christine, also laughing as she lobbed throw pillows at the hysterical blonde.

Erik stoically watched the happy scene unfold from the fire escape outside Christine's window. For half a moment, something registered on his face in the pale light of the living room, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come. A beat, and all that he left behind was the fledgling darkness of twilight.


End file.
